


To Eleven

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: One Shot, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-04
Updated: 2006-03-04
Packaged: 2019-01-19 22:54:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12419964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: He had his memories, but clearly,unclearly, he couldn’t make new ones. This was not the death he pictured. [afterlife!James] [Hourglass nominee]





	To Eleven

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

**a/n:** One in the morning seems to be my most productive hour. Um – this came from nowhere. Seriously. It’s rather disjointed, and less plot-oriented, more character-centric. James-centric, actually. Yeah. So, okay. Read. Review. Please.

**disclaimer:** Nothing is mine. Everything is JKR’s, except for the quotes, who belong to their respective authors at the bottom of the page.

\--

**To Eleven**

\--

_1\. Is whispering nothing?_

_Is leaning cheek to cheek? is meeting noses?_

\--

This was death – _was this death?_

This was _still_ death. 

There was no time here. Of course, it passed, in the real world (and if _that_ was the real world how could _this_ be the fake world?) – but it never mattered. There was no expiration date this time around.

It was much like a city – though nothing like Diagon Alley, not even like London. He always found comfort in cities – people everywhere. He could deal with people. He was good with people.

He was constantly walking to some sort of destination, though it was never exactly clear whereto. Mostly he ended up in a park. Trees, grass, people… everything was alive. Everything maintained characteristics of living things. _But wasn’t everything dead?_

Familiarity was _killer_. He hated it. The nagging feeling. The fact that he was positive he’d seen the face before but he couldn’t quite place it. He’d seen the face, and saw it again minutes later, but it was always – _where do I know you from?_

He assumed, though he wasn’t sure of anything anymore, that these people found comfort in people. Like himself. Was this heaven? Did he believe in heaven? Did it really matter? He was, after all, no longer existent. He had his memories, but clearly, _unclearly_ , he couldn’t make new ones.

This was not the death he pictured.

Wouldn’t – wouldn’t he be reunited with his parents? He saw families here – but perhaps they had died together.

He untangled himself from the crowd and emerged at the park, another anonymous park. Maybe it was the same one. He sat down at the bench and fiddled with the sleeves of his sweater. He was almost certain that he’d been wearing this for the past – five seconds? Ten years? Oh – _nothing_ was certain.

A red-haired woman sat next to him on the bench, and it was as if someone reattached the nerves in his body. He felt as if he was waking up whilst dreaming. That _feeling_ – where he’d realize he was dreaming and he’d take control and wake himself up, and he’d always be a bit tense. 

\--

_2\. Love is the difficult realization that something other than oneself is real._

\--

“James? Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” said the woman.

“I’ve been here. The city, Lily.”

And it was as if the nerves were being detached and reattached over and over, in and out and in and out of slumber.

Lily. Dead. Beautiful, intelligent, talented, magnificent _Lily_.

“Oh, Lily…”

“The city,” she said, disregarding his poignant tone. “That makes sense. It’s – it’s nature for me. I guess this meets somewhere in the middle. I bet – I bet the others will end up here, too. You’re connected like that. I mean – in the far future.”

_End up. Was this where he had_ ended up _?_

“Future?” He said the word as if she’d invented it on the spot. What was future now? Had it any meaning?

“I know,” she said quietly. She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. The tension was gone but his fingertips still tingled. “We’ll be okay.”

\--

_3\. Must not all things at the last be swallowed up in death?_

\--

At least… at least Lily lived up to her name. Lived up to it by dying. He didn’t quite understand – but he thought he made sense. She would’ve fulfilled it anyway. Death was inevitable. For everyone. Except ghosts…

He remembered ghosts. Were they dead? Alive? They were more dead than alive, not being able to eat and walk and breathe and touch. They were more alive than dead, talking and thinking and existing in the world where he used to live.

He would never find out for sure, would he? Ghosts never crossed over. Had _he_ crossed over? What was crossing over, anyhow?

“I have so many questions,” he said aloud. “Uggghhh.”

“Chin up, mate.”

His head snapped up so fast he was sure he was close to breaking it (if it were even possible).

“ _No_ ,” he breathed, in disbelief and astonishment and sadness.

“I’ve got your answers. A) Yes, I’m dead. B) Harry’ll be just fine. C) Where’s Lily? And D) No, nobody knows why llama is spelled with two L’s.”

\--

_4\. Without friends no one would choose to live…_

\--

He looked as fresh as ever, just the same as he’d last seen him. He and Lily had arrived back home from a night out. When the couple walked into the kitchen, nearly everything had been covered in chocolate. Including the baby, and the babysitter.

This time, he wasn’t covered in chocolate. He was here, and he was dead, but _he was here_. This was upsetting, of course. Sirius Black. _Dead_.

His best man. Truly, undoubtedly, in the purest meaning of the phrase – _his best man._

“’Where’s Lily’ is a question, not an answer,” he said, grinning.

“This place is weird,” said Sirius as he plopped down next to him. “I’m sorry about Wormtail.”

“The past in the past.”

“He won’t – when he also – I mean I’m sure he won’t be – ” 

\--

_5\. Et tu, Brute?_

\--

_… joining us?_ He thought morbidly and dryly and without much feeling at all.

“I know,” he said. 

“Bellatrix killed me, you know,” said Sirius conversationally. “The bitch.”

He wondered if the same courtesy should be extended to living people from dead people as dead people from living people.

His mother had always said it wasn’t polite to speak negatively of the deceased. And if the same civility existed the other way around, he didn’t think it quite pertained to Bellatrix. Of Remus, surely. He, the deceased, would never speak badly of Remus, the living.

“How much time had passed? Since Lily and I…”

“Fifteen years, I think,” replied Sirius. “Harry – he’s a carbon copy of you, with – ”

“Lily’s eyes, yeah?” he finished, a small smile touching his lips. “I’m sure he hears it all the time.”

They were quiet for a while – though there wasn’t a specific period of time. He looked at his wrist, at his watch. It had read 11:46 for the past… _for the past what?_ He didn’t know. He was – he was so damn confused about time in this place.

\--

_6\. When all is said and done, the weather and love are the two elements about which one can never be sure._

\--

The afterlife. (He wondered why they didn’t just call it the death.)

There was no bad weather. He forgot about bad weather – and when he remembered the rain, the dark skies, the muddy fields… the next time he looked up, there was a storm.

There was no magic here, no wands or incantations or potions. Just thoughts – and whatever he willed, it happened. As long as it was within boundaries, he presumed – who controlled that, anyway?

God? Who the _hell_ was _God_?

He stood and ran. Ran, ran, ran and held his arms out and threw his head back. Water splashed on his askew glasses and his clothes became saturated. His hair still stuck out in every which way, defying the laws of physics, as it always had. He laughed his glorious laugh, he screamed on the top of his lungs and he spun around until he was dizzy. He fell to the ground and he lay on his back, spread-eagle. 

“Are you quite through?”

He tilted his head up and stared at Lily, who was standing a few feet away with Sirius.

“I – yeah – yeah, I am.”

The rain stopped, the clouds parted, and the sun shined.

He stood up.

“Come on,” said Lily, ever so quietly. “Let’s go.”

She slipped her hand into his and led the way. The three of them disappeared into the throng of nameless people. Two black-haired men and a redheaded woman. It was nothing out of the ordinary and at the same time, extraordinary.

“We’ll be okay,” was the last thing she whispered before they were completely indistinguishable. He met her eyes, dangling something like hope in the air. There was no heartbreak – there was no betrayal, tragedy, loss, jealousy, anger or need for revenge. There was no dealing with death. This, all this, they had already dealt with. There was nothing left, and there was everything left.

_He had so many questions. There was no expiration date. It was nothing out of the ordinary._

The sun continued to shine.

_It was extraordinary._

\--

_Citations:_

_1\. William Shakespeare,_ The Winter’s Tale.

_2\. Iris Murdoch._

_3\. Plato._

_4\. Aristotle._

_5\. William Shakespeare,_ Julius Caesar _._

_6\. Alice Hoffman,_ Here on Earth _._

\-- 


End file.
